Same Time Next Year
by Powerprof
Summary: Part One of what became a PPG Christmas Trilogy. Why, until late in the series, had the PPGs never had to save the day on Christmas?


SAME TIME NEXT YEAR …

…Or why the Powerpuff Girls never

have to Save the Day on Christmas.

-by Powerprof

(Part One of the PPG Christmas Trilogy)

Mojo Jojo trudged down the steps of his volcano top observatory. Twice he nearly slipped on the thick ice coating the stairway. He stopped for a moment, stewing, upset that he couldn't maintain his usual menacing cadence. _'Curses,'_ he thought to himself, his usual scowl firmly in place. Then resigning himself to the fact that even a genius supervillain must occasionally bow to the law of physics, he went down more carefully.

He looked at all the happy people around him: kids running through the snow, vendors peddling hot cider and mint cocoa, little groups of singers and instrumentalists making holiday music, bellringers with their coin kettles at every storefront, Christmas decorations adorning every tree in the Townsville Park, ACLU lawyers filing civil suits at City Hall and getting the Mayor's assurance that he'd 'get right on it.'

As one might have guessed, Mojo didn't care much for Christmas. In fact, he didn't care for it at all. And thus every Christmas Eve, he would walk around Townsville cataloguing all the new affronts to his 'Bah! Humbug!' spirit. Every year had furnished some new items for his list of things to despise; this year would not disappoint.

Walk, walk, walk, look up.

'_New snowflake light arrangements on the street lamps… curses.'_

Walk, walk, walk, look into storefront.

'_New flavors of candy canes… curses.'_

Walk, walk, walk, look up and around.

'_Stupid, happy people running around in a frenzy of gross commercialism and getting in the way of my own shopping …well, that isn't new… but, curses anyway. In fact, double curses!'_

Walk, walk, walk, look into warm, inviting window of thoroughly decorated suburban home.

'_Beautiful silvery- white Christmas tree topped with home-made, laser-projected, holographic star…Buh-rilliant!'_

Three little girls and their middle-aged father came into the room.

'_At the Powerpuff Girls' house?…Triple CURSES!'_

Walk, walk, walk…

As always on this particular night, he eventually ended up in the seamier part of Townsville. On one corner, there was a bar in a run down, two-story, brick building with boarded-up windows, a few flickering neon lights, and old, faded advertisements for assorted beverages plastered about.

Mojo huffed a sigh, opened the door and went in. The place was empty except for the bartender who was starting a fire in the fireplace. Mojo climbed onto a barstool.

"Right on time this year. The usual?" asked the bartender cheerfully, as he quickly got behind the bar.

"Yesss," Mojo responded sullenly.

The barkeep quickly brought a double vodka and tonic and set it down in front of him. He quaffed it without batting an eye.

"Another…and keep them coming," Mojo barked as he pounded the bar, "More, I say, more! It is more that I have said, because more is what I want!"

'_Stupid, fat bartender.'_

The barkeeper sighed. _'Every year, the same thing. The rest of them should be showing up soon.'_

Him suddenly appeared a seat away from Mojo, looking equally unhappy, frustrated, offended and forlorn.

"Shirley Temple, please."

"And keep 'em coming," said the bartender, who knew the drill.

"Ohhh, this is the worst one yet," Him sighed. "I just looked in on our favorite enemies, and it seems they're going to have their happiest Christmas ever."

"Yeess, I saw it. The beaming Professor lighting the star as his be-wuh-ved, wid-dul gir-ulls danced around the tree. Bleah!"

"And wasn't that decorating job of theirs soooo ghastly and gaudy? I swear, it was like … like looking into heaven! So much happiness, some much LOVE, SO MUCH …. GRRR! HOW I HATE CHRISTMAS!" Him's voice had slipped into its deeper version. He ground his teeth for a minute, then recovered his composure and daintily downed his first Shirley Temple.

"Who said a doity woid?" came the voice of Ace. He and his probably underage Gang Greens came through the door.

"Now, Ace, you know I can't let your gang in here. They're not old enough, yet," said the bartender.

"Ahh, they're only a year or two short. Um, maybe this could …eh 'age' them a little?" Ace smiled as he slipped a folded-up bill into the bartender's vest pocket. The bartender sighed and shrugged his shoulders. Snake, Grubber, and Ace sat down on the stools, while Big Billy stood at the end. L'il Arturo took the empty seat between Mojo Jojo and Him and ordered a bottle of tequila.

"Feliz Navidad," he offered to the sullen monkey and the brooding arch demon.

WHAM-WHAM! L'il Arturo was suddenly up to his neck in floor.

"Stupid kid," growled Mojo under his breath, as Him nodded in agreement.

'_Every year, the same thing,'_ thought the bartender.

Eventually, all the villains of Townsville arrived and ordered drinks -except for Princess Morebucks. She could never come because every year Daddy Morebucks whisked her away for the holiday season to Bethlehem for what he liked to call a 'down home' kind of Christmas. Not Bethlehem, Pennsylvania, mind you. The one in Israel, and Princess hates it there too. But then she wouldn't know a happy holiday if it jumped up and kicked her.

As the rest of the villains sat down, the bartender busied himself. He knew his once-a-year clientele well. Him, feeling less dainty now, was ready for a Jagermonster. That Fuzzy fellow would want a Julip with a Grampa's Greased Lightning Mountain Dew chaser. Femme Fatale, recalling her salad days at Bennington, fancied Narragansetts. Mojo was probably about ready to switch to banana daiquiris, though if that wasn't timed carefully, the usual rant about 'misconceptions' would inevitably follow. The jolly fellow worked efficiently, sizing up the mood of his guests with an expression of sad resignation. Within minutes everyone had their favorite potable, and then the commiserating shifted into overdrive.

"Every year, the same thing."

"This stinks," muttered Ace, as he licked the foam off a fresh draft of Grottenbier. "What'd we ever do to deserve this?"

"We are villains, idiot," Mojo said with a slight growl as he parked another daiquiri.

"And that's a responsibility I, for one, do not take lightly," cooed Him as he downed the blood red mixture of grenadine and bitters.

"Maybe we could take a…y'know …'vacation' from evil and just enjoy the season like everybody else," Ace offered.

Thus the litany began:

"It would mean letting go of our grievances…"

"It would mean not taking ourselves seriously ..."

"It would mean letting go of our pride, self-respect and …stylishness."

"TTHHPPPBBBRRTTTT."

"It would mean growing up and taking responsibility for our lives and actions."

"It would mean giving instead of taking. Ugh!"

"I would mean showing good will to all MEN, yuck!"

"It woo'd mean lettin' pee-pul ohn mah prah-purdy!"

"It would mean liking that tacky Little Drummer Boy."

The bartender always listened to this conversation with mild interest, but every year, it went the same way. The villains of Townsville would sit there ticking off all the reasons why they couldn't be a part of this most wonderful time of the year. He always , out of sheer stubbornness, held a faint flicker of hope these folks might see their foolishness and hubris, and recant their villainous ways if only for a day. And always, like the light from the dying fire in the fireplace, his hope faded as the drinks, which might possibly get them to loosen their grip on their collective resentment, instead revealed its profound depth and persistence.

'_Every year, the same thing,'_ thought the bartender. _'Okay, then …'_

The drinks kept coming. Sobriety got going.

"And worshed of all, i' would mean bein' HAPPY! … when the Powepuffsh foil our planth…an' shave the dayz…."

"Well, I theeng issshhh time ta do Su-Su-Su-Su-SUMTHING aboud th-thad."

"He-ah, he-ah. Thay'er prolly habin' their Chrishmuth evened … din-din-dinner raihgt nah-ow."

"EE-yeeesh. Less go attag thosh … rooo-tten goody… goodeeez. At wonsh. NOW! Immedi (*hic*) ly."

"Ye-yah, an' ru-in thay' er Chrishmuth …laik they…ru-ru-ruin ours."

"TTTBBBR (*HIC*) RRPPPTT."

"Lead the wavish."

"An shum-body…should go …get-the-monshterz… on Maaawnshter Isle… outta hiber…hiber…hiberna-shun."

"I bedder take thish boddle wif mee fur thad."

"Yule need more thu- than… one boddle."

"Yooz sum of mah moooon-shine on um."

"I had a boodle wunsh…but it runned a-way…"

The party was over.

'_Only lost an hour this year,'_ thought the chubby bartender as he began herding the villains of Townsville out the front door. "Buh-bye. Same time next year. Don't be late," he smiled, as they staggered away into the night. They got about twenty feet, and collapsed in a heap. A light snow began covering them.

And so it goes. Every Christmas Eve, almost as if by divine decree, the villains of Townsville get together to have their collective lights put out. Since it takes them nearly a week to recover from this annual, self-inflicted pity-party, the Powerpuff Girls have never once had to save the day on Christmas.

Of course, it helps that someone else saves it for them.

"Every year the same thing," said the bartender to no one as he tidied up a bit. "I don't really like doing it this way, but I won't have them wrecking it for everybody else. I keep hoping that someday they'll …come around. But, ah well….I guess a chance to forget their warped, wretched selves for a while is the best present I can give 'em. It's all the poor, miserable fools will accept from me."

The bartender had slipped off the vest and put on an ornately embossed, fur-lined red velvet coat and cap. Then, he pulled the mask off his face, unfurled an ancient, white beard that flowed over an ageless smile and went out back. There, in the shadows, was some movement in the midst of which shimmered the reflected light from eight pairs of eyes. The shapes, entrained, began moving forward in pairs, each following on the other.

"And it's the best present I can give the town."

"And that Smart Kid … and his Adorable Little Girls."

"Eh, Dasher?"

Dasher and the rest of the reindeer snorted their collective agreement as the 'bartender' nimbly mounted the magnificent sleigh behind them and, with the crack of a whip, into the snowy sky they went.


End file.
